


To Have and to Hold

by Skalidra



Series: 100 Prompts [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Anal Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Marriage, M/M, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:23:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damian is Ra's' grandson, and has lived his whole life in the League. Tim is Robin, and one of Ra's' prospective heirs; competition that Damian is not willing to let be. Unfortunately, Ra's won't allow Damian to kill his competition (yet), which leaves only one option to remove Drake from the running, or at least ensure his own power. Marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, this is another of the 100 prompts; 10, 'Breathe Again', with some requested TimDami. Probably not what anyone expected, but I'm good at that. XD For reference, in case the summary doesn't make it totally clear, this is an AU in which Damian never went to Bruce. So he's about 18/19, and has been in the League his whole life. Have fun!

The man comes out of nowhere.

A whisper of sound, the slightest sense that there’s someone _else_ in his space, and Tim’s reflexes kick in. It’s just not fast enough to stop the arm looping around his throat, yanking him back against a broader, harder chest and actually _lifting_ him off the ground so he’s hanging purely by that arm. His mouth opens to gasp air he can’t even start to get as he struggles, hands rising to grab that bare, corded arm and try and get some of the pressure off of his throat.

He kicks backwards, hits something solidly enough that it buckles, dropping both of them. His other foot hits the ground, but he’s dragged further down along with his attacker, who seems perfectly content to go all the way down to both knees. His legs slide out, and a fist hits his side with enough force to make him jerk and bow in, any hint of air he’d gained gone again just like that.

Desperation threatens to take hold, but he bares his teeth into a snarl and pushes it away, forcing himself to just _think_.

He has to get loose, at least long enough to get a breath. Whoever this is doesn’t want him dead, or there would have been a knife in his back or against his throat instead of this arm bar. There’s no way someone skilled enough to sneak up on him, and willing to attack him without warning or apparent reason — he was just _scouting_ — doesn’t have a weapon capable of killing him. So he just has to do enough damage to get his attacker to withdraw, before he’s choked out and is vulnerable to whatever goal this man has in mind.

He’s being held too low for a headbutt, his legs are at too awkward of an angle to give him much leverage, which means his only weapons are his hands, and whatever he can reach with them.

Luckily, he’s got plenty of weapons in his belt. The trick is not letting his attacker stop him from grabbing one. Or several.

He lashes backwards with his left elbow, towards his attacker’s side and the arm _not_ strangling him. His arm is grabbed, as expected, but his other hand is already dragging the sedative spray from its pouch and yanking it up. He sprays it up over his head, towards where he’s nearly positive his attacker’s face is. He knows he’s guessed right when the arm around his throat loosens — he gasps a breath — and there’s a hard cough from behind him, breath rushing against the back of his head.

He manages to get his hand up between his throat and the arm, yank his other arm free from the loose grip, and slam his elbow back into what he’s almost positive is a very solid side. Another rush of air, accompanied by a grunt, and he jerks free of the hold. He falls forward, twists and brings his legs around so he can slam one heel into the center of his attacker’s chest.

It’s less effective because the man is already shifting backwards, and the kick really only propels him further into the roll he’d already started. He scrambles back a bit, gets to his feet, and his attacker ends up in a crouch, looking up at him through the gap of a black head wrap. That, in addition to the close-fitting, arm-baring, black uniform, makes him grit his teeth. He nearly throws his hands in the air too, he’s so _sick_ of this.

“Are you _kidding_ me?” he asks, his voice coming out a little hoarse. “No. Look, just turn around, go back to Ra’s, and tell him I’m _not interested_. I don’t care what he offers me, I don’t care how many times, he’s creepy and obsessed and I’m not interested in being evil. Just no. Go away.”

The blue eyes watching him narrow, and his attacker stands. “I am not here to _recruit_ you, Drake,” the man all but spits.

He stares, considers the words, blinks. “Really?” he asks, with maybe just a bit of hope behind the question. “Because usually when League of Assassins members show up and attack me — and _aren’t_ interested in immediately murdering me — it’s another of Ra’s’ weird attempts at seduction. Should really give him a heads up; I wouldn’t say no to some flowers or chocolate, for once.”

He has to pause, actually _think_ about that idea.

“Actually, nevermind. I prefer my wooing attempts to not need to be screened for poison, just in general. Not even flowers could be innocent with that man. There’d be some kind of hidden message in the bouquet to have to figure out how to stop a bomb or something. Would it really be so hard for your boss to just like, I don’t know, be a normal person or something for once?”

His attacker scoffs, chin raising in something that looks a lot like arrogance. “Do you truly believe yourself so important, Drake?”

He supposes it should concern him more that Ra’s’ minion is using his real name, but frankly it’s happened too often for him to care anymore. He only vaguely still holds out hope that his name doesn’t get circulated to every single new recruit Ra’s get, and that hope dwindles every time one of them shouts it at him. If Ra’s’ eventual plan is to make sure his identity gets blown by some ninja yelling his real name in public, well, it’s probably going to work at some point.

“Well, all evidence says I _am_ that important, considering Ra’s has put so much effort into studiously not killing me.” He takes the break as an opportunity to scan the man for weapons, and _strangely_ not come up with any. There might be something hidden, but there are no obvious blades and the uniform is fairly skintight, so anything in there would have to be small. “So if you’re not here to woo me, than what? I’m pretty sure if Ra’s had changed his mind, he’d have at least sent me an encrypted note to tell me or something. I’d have known the rules had changed.”

“Perhaps you missed it,” his attacker offers, and then _moves_.

Fast, for someone with a decent amount of height and a long, lean build. Not fast enough to stop him reacting though, so he manages to pull out his collapsible staff and flick it open, trying to divert the nearly head-on charge with a swipe of the metal. The duck underneath it is smooth, transfers into the brace of gloved fingertips against the wooden floor and the twisting sweep of legs for his. He jumps over that, almost immediately has to retreat backwards from another powerful kick and then yank out of the way of the flash of thin, metal needles aimed towards his throat.

One still slices the side of his neck on its way past.

“Hasn’t Ra’s got better things to do then send ninjas after me?” he gripes, as he returns the favor and bashes his attacker’s shoulder with a quick jab of the staff. It only wins him about half a second before the man is back on his feet.

“I am not here on Ra’s al Ghul’s orders,” the man spits at him, as he makes a grab for the staff. And gets a hold of it.

He tries to pull his staff away from the man, tries to twist it over the delicate wrist and bear down to force a joint lock, but his attacker is a little bit too good for that and keeps his grip. “Some other faction?” he guesses, ducking away from another spray of needles. Towards his face this time; that’s rude. “Look, if you’re here trying to eliminate Ra’s’ heir or something then just don’t bother, please? I’m not interested and I’m never going to take his offer, so you can just let it go. This doesn’t need to happen.”

The man scoffs, drags him closer by the staff and lands a painfully solid knee in his gut. “Your lack of _interest_ in being the Demon’s Head has no bearing on whether it will occur. You are unworthy of the title and I intend to _prove_ it.”

He kicks back, gets blocked with a free hand before that hand hits his arm hard enough he automatically jerks it away, letting go of the staff in the process. The staff gets knocked upwards, hits the underside of his chin, and his other hand lets go too. He staggers back, and his attacker flings his staff across the room, towards the opposite wall.

“So this is some kind of jealousy thing?” is his next guess, as he flings a birdarang towards somewhere in the middle of the man’s chest. Not that it hits, or that he expects it to. “Or is it more like the protective parent, trying to prove the prom date isn’t good enough for the girl? You know, I think Ra’s might be a little offended at either of those options, honestly.”

He gets rushed again, but is a little more prepared for it this time. The way his heart is pounding and he’s still breathing hard from the attempted strangulation is not lending him much help on the ‘endurance’ side of this fight, but some careful judging says he’s probably just about as good a technical fighter as his attacker, and he’s got more gear. Not that it’s helped so far, but he’s got faith in his own skill. He’s beat plenty of people of his own skill level, almost all of them bigger and physically tougher.

“I mean, does Ra’s even know you’re here? He’s not going to be happy about you coming after me without permission.”

“Do you always talk so much?” the man growls, right before kicking him in the gut. Something by _all_ rights he should have dodged.

It knocks him back against one of the not-so-solid walls, which crunches a little alarmingly beneath the impact, but luckily doesn’t buckle. He forces himself to straighten back up, feels a little tingle in his fingertips, a bit of a tightness to his chest. Something isn’t right.

The man sounds _very_ pleased when he says, “Slowing down, Drake?”

Which clicks everything together in his head. “You _drugged_ me,” he exclaims, raising his hand to brush the thin slice on the side of his neck and glance down at the smear of blood on his gloves. “Oh, that’s not fair.”

There’s a weight in his feet that feels like it’s holding him to the spot, a slight mist to his thoughts that he’s really not appreciating. That’s not good. That’s not good at all.

“Do not be ridiculous,” the man says, moving towards him with all the confidence of someone assured of victory. “I drugged you when I had you pinned. That was merely a secondary dose, since I believe I may have underestimated your tolerance with my first.”

Alright, time to give up the idea of doing this on his own. He’s still in Gotham; hopefully his family is close enough to intervene. If not, if he shouts loud enough Kon might hear him. He’ll keep that as the backup plan.

He jerks his hand up, going for the button to activate the com in his ear, and suddenly his attacker is right in front of him. A hand grabs his face, slams his head back into the wall. Yanks him forward, does it again. The first time he gasps, the second time he blacks out.

* * *

He comes awake to the sensation of movement, to the feeling of his legs dragging over rough stone and the hard pressure of fabric against the front of his chest and shoulders. Uncomfortable, but not outright painful.

It takes a couple seconds of gathering himself to open his eyes just a tiny bit, to try and figure out where he is and what’s going on, without alerting whoever’s carrying him to the fact that he’s awake.

The first worrying bit, apart from the whole being dragged thing, is that he’s out of his suit. He’s in some kind of rougher, slightly loose set of pants and a t-shirt, no shoes, and he’s pretty sure that his mask is gone too. The second is that there’s a piece of cloth between his teeth, tied roughly into the hair at the back of his head. Then there’s the floor under him, which is transitioning from large, rough, stone squares into much smoother marble. It looks distractingly familiar, which connects in his head all too well to the memory of his League of Assassins attacker. Probably the worst bit is that he can feel that his arms are bound behind him from wrist to elbow — his left arm’s starting to go a little numb, which implies he’s been like this for a while — and his legs are bound too, at his ankles and thighs.

None of that bodes well for any kind of escape attempt, and means that whoever took him is on the side of competent, not lucky. Shame.

He’s being carried by a grip on the back of his shirt, which also means that his attacker — assuming that that’s who’s carrying him — is pretty strong. He’s smaller than most of his family, but he’s still all muscle, and dead weight is never easy to lift, even if it’s just being dragged.

He shifts his head a bit, peering over towards the sound of footsteps, but can only see legs, dressed in dark green fabric with a gold accent at the hem, up to about the height of knees. Any higher and he’ll have to actually turn his head to look up, and that would give away that he’s aware again. Whatever plans this guy has, maybe he can get a better chance at foiling them if he doesn’t immediately give the game away. People usually don’t make the effort to be wary of the unconscious.

He hears a door creak open, and glances up just in time to be pulled through a large double door, over a threshold, and onto a darker style of marble. It’s lit by firelight, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realizes he _does_ recognize this place. It’s Ra’s’ throne room.

The question is, is this good or bad?

On one hand, Ra’s is creepy, obsessive, and prone to trying to outmaneuver and steal him away whenever possible. Being presented on a silver platter might be all the incentive Ra’s needs to lock him away in a cell and keep him like some kind of pet. That would not be a good outcome, for obvious reasons, even if he could probably break free eventually, or maybe get rescued.

On the other hand, Ra’s is also _possessive_ , and whoever his attacker is might not get a great greeting for having attacked him without permission. He’s not going to cheer for the death of the man but, well, it is completely not his fault if it does happen. Getting between Ra’s and his obsessions is not a good idea, most of the time.

There’s a tense sort of silence, punctuated only by the tap of his attacker’s steps and the slight rustle of him being dragged alongside, before he’s unceremoniously dropped to the floor. He hits face first, unable to stop it, and has to bite down on a groan at the pain of the impact, glancing over through the fall of his bangs to gauge the distance between them and Ra’s’ throne.

The small flight of stairs up is barely a foot in front of them, so they’re _close_. Probably closer than he’s ever seen a subordinate get to Ra’s without explicit invitation.

There’s a moment of pause, and then Ra’s speaks from above them. “There’s a sight I did not expect to see. I believe you owe me an explanation, Damian.”

The name sticks in his head, and he almost looks up before squashing the urge.

“I should have the right to challenge my potential rival, should I not?” the man above him says, _fearless_ in the face of Ra’s’ smooth drawl. “I know you value his mind but Drake is unworthy, Grandfather. Is this not proof enough for you?”

He can’t help sucking in a sharp breath at that word. _Grandfather_.

Throwing caution to the wind he looks up, finds Ra’s first — reclining in his throne, with a faint edge of disapproval to his gaze — and then twists his head to look up at his attacker.

Short black hair and jade eyes meet his gaze, set in a glare that’s _way_ too familiar for comfort. The man is fairly young, maybe eighteen or so, but he looks a _lot_ like Bruce. The same sharp jaw, the same shape to his eyes, the same _expression_. There are enough differences for him to immediately discard the idea of cloning, luckily. Darker skin, closer to Talia’s copper shade, longer eyelashes, a different mouth, and the build is completely different from Bruce’s bulk, but the resemblance is unmistakable.

Ra’s’ _grandson?_ He had no idea that Talia had a son, and it _must_ be Talia’s, because who else could get close enough to have what has to be Bruce’s kid? There’s no way Bruce _knows_ , right? He can’t possibly know that this Damian exists, which brings up some weird questions of whether the son was more natural, or if Talia was sneaking around stealing condoms or something.

 _God_ , things he doesn’t want to think about.

“We have had this conversation, Damian,” Ra’s says, with an edge of irritation. “When or _if_ I ever require a true heir, I will choose one. Until that time, you are one of several and you will respect that fact. Do not try my patience; I have no tolerance for disobedience.” When he looks back at Ra’s, green eyes look back at him. “Detective, apologies for the method of your transport. I shall have you settled in appropriate accommodations.”

One hand rises, and then Damian is cutting in with a sharp, “I will do it, Grandfather. I brought Drake here, I should be the one to make sure his stay is _comfortable_.”

He’s not positive that he wants to find out what that means.

Ra’s’ eyes narrow just a touch, before his hand lowers. “Very well. Ensure he’s treated well, Damian; I expect to find him relatively unharmed next I see him.”

A small, stiff bow. “As you wish, Grandfather.”

He almost protests when he’s grabbed by the back of the shirt again, but thinks better of it. As bad as the ‘comfortable’ accommodations might be, he still probably wouldn’t trade them for having to stay in Ra’s’ company. He’ll take an uncomfortable cell that he can work on escaping from over having to do one of those weird verbal sparring matches with Ra’s, where he inevitably feels like he gave more away than he wanted to, and gets _examined_ in ways he’s definitely not comfortable with the whole time. Ra’s may look way younger than he is, but his whole attitude still screams awful, molesting uncle or something.

Damian drags him from the room, and he does his _very_ best to ignore the way that he can feel Ra’s’ gaze lingering on him all the way up until those doors close again.

He keeps track of the directions they head, building a map in his head so that once he gets out of all this, he can at least stand some chance of actually escaping. He already knows a bit about the layout of Ra’s’ place, but he hasn’t really been into the deeper levels much, which is where Damian seems to be taking him. Probably to a cell.

Which actually isn’t what happens. Damian opens a door, pulls him in, and it’s an actual room instead of a cell. There’s a real bed in the center of the room, a section that dips downwards into the floor, arranged with pillows and a low table, and a door he’d lay bets on leads to an actual bathroom. Not at all what he was expecting, but he’ll take it over bars and guards.

He gets pulled down into that recessed area, set none-too-gently against one of the firmer pillows before Damian stands back up. He wiggles around so he’s at least facing up, towards the taller man and the scowl aimed down towards him. He bites down on the gag between his teeth, and Damian scowls a little deeper and stalks away, towards the door.

It opens before Damian can get there, and it takes him just a second to recognize Talia slipping inside and closing it behind her with a soft rasp of metal over metal. Damian stops short, looking at her with slight wariness, and she glances down at him before stepping forward to touch her son’s arm.

“Damian, speak with me for a moment?”

Damian follows her gaze, glancing at him too, before bowing his head a touch. “Of course, Mother.”

He watches as the two of them cross the room, backs to him and heads bowed together as they murmur far too quietly for him to hear, and the wrong direction to read lips. He sets to work trying to work his arms out of the bonds, as well as his ankles, while they’re not looking. Not that it does much good; unfortunately they’re both tight, and _very_ sturdy. The mystery son of Talia — and probably Bruce — definitely isn’t new to the art of tying people up.

He could get out of this with gear, or a fair amount of time, but probably not the minute he has, while he’s stripped of all his weapons and tools. He’s not that good and not naive enough to think he is.

Well, at least his life is basically guaranteed. Not even Talia would risk making Ra’s that mad.

After a few minutes Damian turns back around, looking even _more_ pissed off, if possible. He wiggles against the bonds as Talia’s son stalks back over to him, right up till Damian crouches over him and roughly tugs the gag down from between his teeth to under his chin.

“Drake, I have a proposition for you.”

He narrows his eyes, taking the opportunity to wet his lips. “Why should I listen?” he asks, keeping his voice low, and taking a glance back at Talia, who’s standing at the opposite side of the room, arms crossed and hips cocked to one side.

Damian taps fingers against one knee, holding his gaze. “Because it will make you untouchable to my grandfather, at least as far as is possible. That sounds like something that you would be interested in. Am I correct?”

Oh, it _is_ , and Damian _is_.

He pauses, beats his better judgment down — near _anything_ is better than Ra’s — and murmurs, “Alright, I’m interested.”

“Good,” Damian agrees, and then reaches forward and — despite his immediate protest — drags the gag back between his teeth. He glares as Damian stands and looks back towards Talia. “Set it up, Mother? We will need a distraction.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous. “Of course. I will get both you and dear Timothy something more appropriate to wear, and collect an official. I’m sure I can arrange for something… distracting, to occupy my father’s attention. I will be back soon, Damian.”

He tries to connect all those words in his head, he really does, but it doesn’t work. Talia leaves the room, and Damian turns back to him.

“Faster than I anticipated this occurring, but I will do what I must to secure my future at the head of the League. _You_ will not stand in my way, Drake, no matter what promise my grandfather may see in you.” Damian crouches again, balancing easily on his heels. “I may not be able to eliminate you without consequence, but I can tie us together so we are beyond the grasp of my grandfather.”

He pulls against the bonds, trying to speak past the gag but not managing anything but muffled, completely incomprehensible sounds. One of Damian’s eyebrows rises, and the gag gets pulled from between his teeth again after a moment.

“Yes, Drake?”

He swallows. “What are you talking about? What’s going to stop Ra’s?”

Damian, for the first time, smiles. It’s just as slow and dangerous as Talia’s, though smaller. “What will stop my grandfather from seeing you as his inevitable conquest? That is simple, Drake. Our marriage.”

He stares, and then only manages a shocked, “ _What?_ ”

Damian reaches forward, hand sliding around his throat and dragging him up half an inch off the ground. “You are my grandfather’s favored choice as an heir, despite my superiority. If I cannot eliminate you, then I will ensure that even if you are chosen, I will wield _just_ as much power. It is a simple business transaction, Drake, do not make it more complicated than it needs to be.”

“No,” he says, flatly. “No, no, _no_. There is no way I’m getting married to you; not a chance.”

“Then it is a good thing I do not require your consent. Now hush, Drake. Your chatter is irritating and I have plans to make before this is done.” He puts up a lot more of a fight this time, but Damian still manages to get the gag hooked back through his mouth. “When you are mine, I shall consider letting you speak freely again.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Chapter 2 of 3, assuming that Lit doesn't talk me into writing more past that third chapter. For those of you wondering, this is the chapter that has the sex. You got build up, sex, wrap things up. Enjoy!

It feels like the shock doesn’t even have time to slip away before there are two anonymous League members in the room, handing a set of very fancy black, green, and gold robes to Damian and then wrestling him into a second set. He gets a few hard punches in, and briefly manages to grab a blade, but that gets twisted out of his hand a few seconds later before he can do anything with it.

They tie his hands again — in front of him, this time — hobble his ankles enough he can take some small steps, and then very carefully pat him down to make sure he hasn’t taken any more of their weapons, which is overkill but makes enough sense. The gag, annoyingly enough, stays in. And when he _does_ reach up to tear it off Damian is there to grab his arm and pull his hands away with a smirk. He glares back.

The room empties again, but it’s not even a minute later before Talia is sweeping back in, with a man at her heels with a book in his hands and a distinctly priestly vibe. Damian pulls him over to the man, being almost careful about his reduced steps, until they’re standing in front of him. Damian keeps the tight grip on his arm, holding him pretty much still.

“As we discussed,” Talia says to the priest, standing just a couple feet off of his left shoulder. “Just the essentials; no ceremony needed.”

“As you wish, Mistress al Ghul. You have what is required?”

Talia smiles, retrieving a pair of silver rings, which she hands to Damian, and a small, glass bottle of something, dark and ornate looking. The priest takes that, storing it away in some inner pocket before clasping the book in both hands and turning towards them.

He jerks a little bit when the man starts speaking in _Arabic_ , a lilting cadence to his words that suggests some kind of ritualistic, practiced speech but he can’t even come close to understanding it. He knows a little bit of Arabic — not as much as he should, frankly — but these are mostly more complicated words, and they’re in what he has to assume is League dialect because he’s not catching anything more than the occasional filler word.

Damian leans in, lips almost brushing his ear — he _really_ debates a headbutt — as the younger man murmurs, “When the time comes, you will do what is expected of you. By now, you have no doubt guessed the identity of my father, so know that while killing you is not my desired outcome, it is not entirely off the table. If I must, I would rather eliminate you entirely and then seek sanctuary with him, then allow you to remain my rival for this position. Do what is asked, or I will cut your throat here and now.”

He can’t answer, so he settles for glaring and pulling against Damian’s grip on his arm, even though it doesn’t even come close to working.

The priest stops speaking, words ending in the rise of a question, and Damian dips his head, answers in the same foreign language. The priest doesn’t seem to need any answer from him because he moves on, speaking as he opens the book and then turns it, holding it open to them with one hand as he retrieves what looks like a very old calligraphy pen with the other. Like, the kind that you’d need an actual bottle of ink — which seems to be missing — to use.

The book itself looks like some kind of legal document, in old paper with even older writing and — damnit — in Arabic letters that he can read just a little bit of. Enough to understand it as a very binding, very official marriage contract, with two obvious places to sign at the bottom.

Damian releases his arm, taking the offered pen and he sucks in a sharp breath through the gag when the younger man wordlessly drags the tip of the pen over the back of his left hand. It’s sharp enough that it splits the skin easily enough, and blood wells almost immediately. There’s not hesitation or even a hint of pain as Damian draws the pen through the drops of blood and then lowers it to the book, signing his name in the same Arabic letters as the rest of it. The priest produces a dark cloth, which Damian uses to wipe the pen free of the remnants of his blood and then presses briefly to the back of his hand.

He jerks into action, raising his hands and jerking the gag down before anyone can stop him, not that Damian even tries. “Okay, there is no _way_ I am signing anything in my own blood. Just as a rule; no. That’s ‘summon demon’ levels of bad idea right there.”

Damian’s mouth curls into a small grin, and Talia gives a soft laugh. “These days,” Damian explains, quietly, “the only reason it is still signed in blood is so that if issues of legitimacy occur, the DNA can be tested to ensure that both the signature and the blood matches the one who supposedly signed. There is no summoning or magic involved, Drake; sign it.”

The pen is offered to him, and he balks a bit, but takes it with a glare. “Then why the old, creepy book?”

A lazy shrug. “Simple ritual. It contains hundreds of years of my family’s contracts, but any paper with the same agreement would do. Drake, must I repeat my words?”

“No,” he spits, then sighs. “Alright, prince of _creepy_.” He winces, but does the same slice along the back of his left hand that Damian did, dips the pen — which _stings_ — then shifts forward a bit to sign his name on the second spot. “There, you happy? Can I go now?”

The pen is reclaimed from him, and the press of the cloth down over the back of his hand is almost gentle. “Not yet,” Damian says. “This part you may be more familiar with.”

The priest hands the open book to Talia, and then starts off in Arabic again. Shorter this time, and the words have a definite marriage sort of feel to them, in the ‘have and hold’ sense of the word. All of which is confirmed when Damian dips his head again and says something he’s pretty sure translates out to ‘I swear.’ _Jeez_ , he should have put a little more effort into learning Arabic.

“I don’t suppose I get to know what I’m agreeing to,” he gripes, as the priest starts a similar but also noticeably different speech aimed at him. “Am I repeating your Arabic words, or what?”

“English is acceptable,” Damian corrects, dabbing once more at the back of his hand before letting the cloth fall. “A simple ‘I do’ will suffice.”

“I figured.” He sighs when the priest reaches the end of the speech, watching him expectantly. “I do,” he says, lamenting the fact he can’t cross his arms and look suitably unhappy with all of this. Because he is. He _really_ is.

That glass bottle reappears, and the priest uncorks it and then offers it to Damian first. Damian takes it, tipping it up to take what looks like a small sip. He watches the younger man swallow, and eyes the bottle distrustfully when Damian holds it out to him.

“It is completely harmless and symbolic,” Damian reassures him, with a raised eyebrow. “Swallow, Drake; I am not above pouring it down your throat if I must.”

He takes the bottle, sniffs it briefly — it smells a bit like chai; spice and faint sweetness — and then raises it to take a drink. He keeps his lips firmly pressed together, faking the swallow, and then hands it back to the priest. He’s definitely not taking a drink of something he doesn’t know the contents of, even if it is supposedly harmless. Oh yeah, because he’s going to trust the word of Ra’s’ grandson, sure.

Suddenly one of Damian’s hands is at his jaw, fingers digging into the hinges of it and he gasps at the sharp, painful pressure before there’s a mouth against his and a _tongue_ slipping between his teeth. He jerks, trying to pull away and almost tripping over his own feet, Damian’s other hand grabbing his arm to hold both his hands down and out of the way. It only lasts for a moment, before Damian lets go of his jaw and pulls away a bit with one raised eyebrow.

“A _real_ drink this time, Drake.” Damian reclaims the bottle, still holding his arms lowered as the bottle is raised to rest against his lips. “Lips _around_ it, not against.”

He glares, but he’s _really_ sure that Damian’s threats aren’t bluffs and this is probably a little better than dying, so he parts his mouth and lets Damian push the head of the bottle between his teeth. One finger presses to the underside of his jaw, tilting his head back a bit so the liquid within the bottle empties into his mouth. He _really_ considers just keeping it there for a second, and spitting it out — _right_ in Damian’s face — before logic takes hold again. Living is good.

The bottle is removed, handed off, and then Damian’s hand presses his mouth closed and unceremoniously clasps over both his mouth and nose. “Swallow,” is the low order. “All of it, Drake.”

He does, after a couple seconds of glaring, just to be contrary. Damian’s hand lets go, and then presses to those pressure points in his jaw again to make him open his mouth. Presumably to make sure he did actually swallow, but he rolls his eyes and only barely resists the urge to bite Damian’s fingers when they slip away.

The taste of whatever it was is heavy on his tongue, just as spicy-sweet as it smelled but with enough flavor to feel cloying and like honey in his mouth. It feels like it settles heavy in his stomach, warm and spreading even though it was cool when he swallowed it. He’s just a little grossed out, honestly.

Damian retrieves the rings from whatever small pocket he stored them away in, and then pulls his arms up, taking his left hand. He lets Damian slip one of the silver rings — white gold, maybe? — onto his ring finger, and yeah, it’s a little creepy that it actually fits him just about perfectly, settling snugly past the last knuckle. He’s a little glad that Damian doesn’t hand him the other ring, just casually slips it on his own hand. He’s _pretty_ sure he would have flung it across the room for them to have to find, threats or not.

“It is done,” the priest says, this time at least in English, so he can understand. “By the ancient laws you are partners; bound until the grave takes one of you for the final time. My lord Damian, do you require witnesses?”

Damian shakes his head. “There will be other proof. Thank you for your silence on this matter, priest.”

“As is my duty. I shall leave you both to the consummation of your contract.”

“The _what?_ ” he hisses, as the priest claims the book and turns to leave, Talia just behind him after a small smile and a wink. The door shuts, and he turns on Damian. “What did you not tell me?”

“Quite a few things,” Damian answers easily, facing him without even a hint of wariness. “Even your marriage rituals involve consummation of the relationship, do they not? Did you not expect this, husband?”

“Oh _hell_ no. This is not happening; you stay away from me!”

Then Damian is moving, grabbing his arm and dragging him across the room, this time with no care for his bound ankles. He yelps, almost falling over until Damian winds up at his back, all but lifting him by his upper arms until they’re in front of the bed. Then one heavy arm wraps around his chest, pinning his arms down, and the other rises to grip his jaw, the heel of Damian’s hand pressing hard against his throat and breath rushing hot and heavy over his ear.

He shivers as teeth trace over the shell of his ear, then down to his neck. That’s actually, not all that bad. His breath comes a little harder, a little more like gasps against the pressure of Damian’s hand, his fingers curling into the ornamental robe he’s been dressed in. The arm around his chest eases, slides down and holy _shit_ ‘easy access’ was not what he’d been thinking when they wrestled him into these things but just like that Damian’s hand is inside his robe and curling around his cock, which is not _entirely_ soft. That’s… That can’t be right.

“You drugged me,” he breathes, against Damian’s hand and as he squeezes his eyes shut. “The— The bottle. Drugged.”

Damian rumbles something like a confirmation against his throat, teeth scraping with a little more purpose and the sensation is a whole lot better than he thinks it should be. Being bitten has never been his thing. “If you had taken just a small swallow when offered, I would not have had to force the rest of the bottle on you, Drake.”

“You told me it was _harmless_ ,” he protests, but his breath is catching and he’s hardening in Damian’s hand, none of which is making him sound all that angry. He’s not totally sure he _is_ angry.

“It is harmless,” Damian murmurs. “It is a simple blend built to excite the participants, to ensure that there are no failures to perform. A smaller swallow — like mine — would simply have ensured you were—” a twist of his cock that makes his back arch a little bit, a moan catching in his throat “—at attention, so to speak. How much you took will keep you calm, and aroused. There are no other side effects, nor any long term consequences. Relax and enjoy, Drake.”

“You—” That little moan escapes him, and then a second when Damian bites down against the side of his neck, sucking against his skin. “So it’s what, basically Viagra and a sedative?”

Damian laughs against his throat, letting go of his cock to slide those calloused fingers lower and explore first his balls, then the stretch of his perineum. “In essence, I suppose.”

He gasps, pressing forward into the touch of Damian’s wrist and palm. “This is totally unfair,” he breathes. “You could have _warned_ me that this would involve _sex_.”

“Would you still have agreed?” Damian asks, removing his hand and stepping back from him. He hears the rustle of robes, but it doesn’t quite click in his head over the sudden little rush of sadness that there’s no more _touch_.

He tilts his head back, breathes through his teeth and tries to control this at least a little as he balls his hands to fists. “I didn’t agree to begin with,” he points out. “Think I would have at least liked dinner before getting married. Court me or— or something.”

Damian’s hands slide around his waist, deft fingers undoing the knots of the bonds around his wrists, freeing his hands. “You are viewing this as far more constricting than it is, Drake. Despite the ritual, this is no more important than any single night between temporary lovers. Do not think of it in terms of marriage, simply think of it in terms of pleasure. I do not expect oaths of undying love, or promises of devotion. Let me lie with you like any of your other lovers. Imagine another, if you wish, I will not take offense.”

The robes are drawn off his shoulders, leaving them bare and he shivers until hot skin presses to his, chasing away the faint chill of the air. “Really? You seem like the type to take offense.”

Damian’s hands draw the robe off his arms, then release it so it falls in a puddle at his feet, baring him to the hand that slides down his abs to curl lightly, _possessively_ , in the pubic hair just above his cock. He tilts his head back against Damian’s chest, grips that muscled forearm and feels the hot, hard press of Damian against his low back.

“It is my hands on your skin, Drake, my lips and teeth, my length that will be inside you. Perhaps it will be my name you scream, when I am through with you. Why should I care what you imagine behind your eyes, when I will be the one to own you this night?”

Damian lets go, then grips him by either side of his waist and lifts him off the ground, turning him to toss him back into the bed. He bounces a bit, squirms and then just _stares_ as Damian steps up to the foot of the bed. He barely even registers the undoing of the knot hobbling his ankles, or the freeing of his feet from the robe; he’s too caught up in staring at the copper skin bared to the world, traced by scars and the definition of muscle. The heat in his stomach isn’t natural, and he _knows_ that, but he will absolutely not deny that Damian is very, _very_ attractive.

Damian crawls onto the bed, one thigh sliding between his legs and pressing in as a hand curls in his hair and drags him into a kiss. The tongue sliding between his teeth is confident, and he knows — he _knows_ — that he can match this kind of skill but the technicalities are escaping him. He feels slow, clumsy, already overwhelmed by the desire in his veins and he can’t quite focus.

“Next time,” Damian whispers against his mouth, intense jade eyes catching his gaze, “I will earn the right to bed you, Drake. If you choose my company again, it _will_ be my name you scream, and I will accept none other. But for now, I will not begrudge you an escape from this situation, if you wish to close your eyes and imagine one of your other lovers behind my touch.”

“You—” He has to pause to gasp again, rocking up into the thigh pressed between his. “You make it sound like I have some kind of harem.” Somehow, one of his hands winds up in Damian’s hair, and Damian’s teeth are against his throat, scraping against his skin.

“Do you not?” Damian teases, and then his legs are being pushed wide to accommodate Damian’s body and there’s a hand shifting down between them, slick fingers massaging and then one sliding inside of him without ceremony. “I have studied you, Drake; you sleep with most of your team, on and off. The boy of steel, your speedster, the wonder-girl… It is rather impressive to have so many enhanced individuals wound so firmly about your fingers. My grandfather favors you for a reason.”

He groans, shakes his head and tugs a little at the hair in his grip. “No, _no_. No talking about Ra’s; not like this.”

“As you wish, lover.” A second finger slides inside of him and he moans, arching his back and rocking down into the penetration. Damian presses closer to him, fingers picking up a wicked twist at the end of their slide that rubs against his prostate. “I should send thanks to the boy of steel.” Damian murmurs, watching him without apparent shame. “He seems rather large based on my surveillance; I imagine your fairly regular bedding of him is why you grow accustomed to my fingers so easily.”

If it’s possible for his cheeks to get any more flushed, they do. “That’s not— How did you even—?”

Damian smirks, fingers stretching apart every time they pull nearly all the way out. “Your Titans’ security is adequate, but not impressive.”

“Oh _god_ ,” he breathes, and whether it’s from the thought of Damian _spying on his sex life_ or the heat building in the pit of his stomach he has no idea.

He tightens his grip in Damian’s hair, gets his other hand up to clutch at one muscled shoulder as he arches, eyes fluttering shut. A third finger pushes into him, and he moans again, rocks into it and silently, in the back of his head, he adds ‘muscle relaxant’ to the list of drugs in that spice. He should not be able to take three fingers so quickly, even if he is ‘calm’ and unnaturally aroused. If anything, that should make him more tense and harder to prepare.

“I suppose now that I am no longer invested in killing you, I can see why they consider you appealing. You are quite beautiful, when control is taken from you.”

Even past the haze, those words manage to irritate him just a little bit. He keeps it off his face, gets a better grip on Damian’s hair and shoulder, raises his legs to press against Damian’s hips, and then _twists_. Damian gives a shocked gasp at being slammed onto his back, and he tugs hard at the black hair between his fingers and gives just as sharp a smirk as the ones that Damian’s been aiming at him all night.

“You think I’m not in control?” he murmurs, pushing against that crest of desire to keep his mind, to enjoy the slight wariness and the fascination in Damian’s eyes. “You haven’t been paying attention when you spy on me, have you? Lesson one; I get _exactly_ what I want from my partners, and they take _exactly_ how much I give them. You don’t take me, _lover_. I take _you_.”

He reaches back, finds Damian’s cock and lines it up, rolling his hips and trusting the mix of drugs in his systems as he sinks down onto it. Sure enough, he feels _filled_ and stretched when he reaches the base, but there’s no pain, no burn. He rocks his hips a bit, bites his lip at the feeling and gives a muffled moan, bracing his hands against the solidity of Damian’s chest.

Hands touch his hips, and he bares his teeth and _smacks_ them away, glaring down at Damian as he hisses, “ _No_. You don’t get to touch; not tonight.”

Damian’s teeth bare right back, shoulders curling up off of the bed. “You are not the dominant one here, Drake.” The tone of voice comes out a little breathless, but insistent. “If you think I—”

He strikes, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Damian’s throat and squeezing tight enough to cut the younger man off. “You have _no_ right,” he spits, as Damian grabs his wrist. “You _drugged_ me, and you’re using me against Ra’s, so I’m _damn_ well going to use you right back. _I_ dictate what happens here and you _do not touch me_. Put your hands down and shut your mouth, or I will make sure that you walk out of here _mauled_ , if you can even walk at all.”

Damian glares for several long moments, and then makes a sharply irritated noise and lets go of his wrist. Both hands curl into the blankets spread beneath them, and Damian presses his lips together and tilts his chin up as if it’s a dare.

He lets go of Damian’s throat in turn, braces his hand back on that muscled chest and rocks his hips. Damian gives a little gasp, but doesn’t speak. He starts to move more purposely, tilting his head back and setting up the rise and fall to fuck himself. It takes about a minute to get the angle just right, and then he moans and swaps his braced hand to just one, reaching the other down to get a grip on himself. Damian is twisting the blankets in his hands, breath coming in sharp bursts and the occasional strangled noise breaking free. He’s more vocal about it, but unsure whether that’s the drugs or just because he tends to be noisy.

Honestly, with the sensation overload and the ripe _satisfaction_ of taking back the situation in at least this way, he doesn’t have the mind or focus to spare to figure that question out. He’s more preoccupied with driving himself towards release, and he knows it’s not going to take all that long. That has to be the drugs, because usually the only people that can get him off this fast are the people that really _know_ him.

Damian shifts beneath him, head tossing to one side and teeth baring, stomach clenched tight. He curls his hand, digs his nails into Damian’s chest and gets a small yelp and a twitch he can actually _feel_ inside him. He gasps, picks up the pace so he can _slam_ down onto Damian’s hips, matching it with the twist of his own hand around him.

Not long after, Damian arches a little, bucks up into him, and gives a broken sounding moan. He can _feel_ the throb, and then the wet warmth spreading inside him, and it knocks him harder towards that edge. He pushes down, twists his hand _just right_ , and cries out, tilting his head back as he comes.

He can feel Damian jerk a bit, but ignores it to rock his hips and chase the last rise of the feeling before it starts to fall. Then he lets go of himself, bringing his head back down to look at Damian. He feels pleasantly fuzzy, but there’s a lingering heat in his gut that’s unfamiliar, and when he starts to shift away Damian jerks and shudders.

“You’re— You’re still hard,” he manages to string together out of his thoughts. Then he glances down, identifies the heat in his gut and spits out, “ _I’m_ still hard.”

Damian’s eyes pry open, looking up at him as the younger man arches just a little bit. “Once will— will not be enough. The drink has roots in ensuring conception for a traditional pairing; rituals have not changed to fit other gender combinations.” Damian takes a deeper breath, rocking upwards just a bit and they _both_ shiver almost in tandem. “Twice more should drain it from our systems. It can also be waited out, but it will pass much slower without exertion. Hours.”

“How many hours?”

“More than we have before we are discovered,” is the answer. “If my grandfather finds us like this, I doubt either of us could stay his hand.”

“ _Great_.” Before he can think about it too much, he shoves his way off of Damian. He gets a sharp cry from Damian, and stifles his own by biting down into his own lip. “Turn over, _lover_. Fair’s fair.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Alright, last chapter here (unless Lit convinces me to write more past this, which might happen eventually). Hope you enjoy!

“I want a divorce,” he says bluntly, as soon as his head feels clear and he’s got a bit of a shield of clothing on between him and Damian. It’s not his Robin suit, which sucks, and it’s just the _awful_ easy-access wedding robe things, but at least it’s something.

Damian is watching him, lying stretched out across the rumpled sheets, a flush still lingering in his cheeks and satisfaction easy to read in those jade eyes. But, at his demand, those eyes roll and Damian turns away, slipping off of the opposite side of the bed to stand. He definitely _doesn’t_ catch his gaze sweeping down the dip of Damian’s spine, and definitely doesn’t have to pull it away from staring at the small of his back, where he’d pressed one of his hands and held Damian down for _his_ turn.

“There is no such thing,” Damian says over one shoulder, retrieving what looks like two piles of clothing from somewhere on the floor down there. “Do you honestly believe I would have gone to all this trouble if simple words or paper could undo all my work? My grandfather could easily have forced such actions to occur.”

“No divorce.” His voice comes out flat with disbelief. “What do you mean there’s _no divorce?_ ”

Damian turns, tossing one pile across the bed to him and he catches it automatically. “A marriage can only be undone as long as it remains unconsummated.” A glance towards the bed, one raised eyebrow and the curl of a smirk. “I would say that time has passed.”

He glares, clenching the fabric between his fingers as he curls his hands to fists. “Let me guess; not telling me that was completely intentional?” Damian just inclines his head, setting his pile of clothing on the bed and shaking out a pair of loose, black pants with embroidered golden and dark green vines up the sides. “Awesome. So now would be the time to tell me exactly how this works, _Husband_. Right now.”

He sets the pile down as he speaks, checking what’s in it. He’s a little glad to discover it’s not a skirt or something bizarre, just a set of pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and some slip-on shoes, all in shades of black and green with edges of gold. It rankles just a bit to be being dressed in Damian’s — and Ra’s’ — color scheme, but he’s not willing to be naked or in these _damn_ wedding robes. He’s sure he’s going to have to deal with this whole drugged-sex thing later, but right at the moment he’s capable of shutting that particular trauma away to focus on the important things.

Figuring out what this marriage he’s been trapped into entails, and figuring out how to get out of Ra’s’ base without losing his life or anything else of major importance. Neither is an easy task; hopefully Damian at least cooperates with the first.

“As you wish,” Damian concedes, pulling the pants up those long copper-skinned legs and tying the strings at his waist. “In essence, you now belong to me, and therefore my grandfather no longer has any right to pursue you. This works because as an al Ghul, _I_ am considered to be the power between us. If you were to die, I would be both welcome to and expected to remarry and continue the line. If I am to die, you are considered to be a widow and are not allowed to ever take another husband, wife, or any other. Even having a lover would be considered to be disrespectful, if not technically against our laws.”

Damian faces him, gaze cool and calm. “My grandfather cannot touch you, Drake. He could still claim you as his heir, but he can no longer force you to be his, even if he were to kill me. If he does make you his heir, I still hold a tremendous amount of power as your partner, as you will if I am chosen as the heir instead.”

“But you own me,” he points out, crossing his arms.

Damian gives a smooth, rolling shrug. “My ownership of you extends exactly as far as I wish it to, and frankly I do not care. Return to your team, have whatever lovers you wish, and do as you like. We are partners from now on, Drake; I may share information with you if I deem it necessary for you to know, or I may request it from you, but I have no interest in sharing your life any more than that. As I said before, this is nothing more than business.”

He watches Damian as the younger man slips into a plain, long-sleeved, black shirt, and then a similar pair of soft-soled shoes in a dark green color.

“I want a copy of the contract I signed,” he says as Damian straightens up again.

“As you wish. I will get you a copy in the original League Arabic, as well as an English translation.” Damian gives a small smirk, arms crossing as the two of them face each other over the bed. “You have not asked for it yet, Husband, but I shall get you copies of the laws we have surrounding marriage as well. I assume that is something you want?”

He narrows his eyes. “You’re being very helpful. Why?”

“What would I gain from opposing you?” Damian counters. “You are no longer my rival, and I may have need of your cooperation in the future.”

“That isn’t happening. Not ever. Not after _this_.”

Damian’s smirk doesn’t fall. If anything, it curls a bit higher. “Come, Drake. You cannot expect me to believe that the idea of ruling the League, whether as the Demon’s Head or from a position of secondary power, does not appeal. Is your willingness to be ruthless not why my grandfather finds you so tempting, Drake?”

He sheds the wedding robe, reaching for the clothes laid out on the bed before him to drag them on. “What if I just kill you?” he spits, mostly out of irritation and definitely having meant it to be rhetorical.

Damian answers anyway, saying, “I am not doing you or any of your friends or family direct harm, so I doubt that your morality would allow you to do such a thing. Not that I do not believe you capable of murder, Drake, I merely find it unlikely that you would do so without tremendous motivation.”

It’s a good guess, unfortunately. So he just grits his teeth and sighs through them, haphazardly tying off the pants before reaching for the shirt. “Get me those documents,” he demands. “I want to know what the precise wording is.”

Damian shifts to sit down on the bed, still watching him unflinchingly. “I will get them for you, but Grandfather has had centuries to perfect the contract; you will not find any loopholes. Also, you are free to leave, Drake, for your information. I can have someone bring you your gear; you will find it all intact.”

He pauses where he’s about to reach for the shoes, staring at Damian in a disbelief he doesn’t even really try to hide. “Just like that?” he asks, and Damian inclines his head about an inch. “What about Ra’s?”

Then Damian’s chin rises, and he’s pretty sure that he’s not imagining that the arrogance in the younger man’s expression is just a mask. “I will face my grandfather, Drake. You are not required to stay, nor will whatever your idea of ‘assistance’ is be necessary. I have dealt with my grandfather all my life, and I can handle him this time as well.”

He crosses his arms. “He’s going to be pissed. He could have you killed.”

Damian scoffs, chin rising another half-inch. “That is unlikely, and—”

“But not impossible,” he cuts in with.

After a moment of what doesn’t quite look like hesitation, but probably is, Damian gives a tiny bow of his head. “Not impossible, no, but it is not a likely outcome. However furious he may be, killing me will not change the fact he can no longer have you as he wishes to, and he has put quite a bit of time and effort into me already. I am nearly positive he will have me whipped, or something similar enough, but the chances of my death are low. If they were high I would not have done this to begin with.”

He shouldn’t ask — he _knows_ he should just leave it be — but he still finds himself demanding to know, “How badly?”

At that, there’s a faint flash of unease in Damian’s gaze, before steel blocks it away. “Until his anger is sated,” Damian answers. “I have seen offenders whipped barely to the sight of blood, and as far as past the point of consciousness. It depends on the crime, and my grandfather’s mood. My punishment will likely be towards the higher end of the scale, but it is only pain; I will endure it as I have all other pain in my life.”

It takes him a few moments to entirely digest that information, and to spin it around in his head with everything else so he can decide precisely what to do with it. The first parts of a plan come together in his mind, and he raises his gaze from where it’s lowered to face Damian again.

“I’ll stay just to see Ra’s’ face when he finds out,” he half-lies. “Before that, I want my suit and gear brought here so I can change back into them, I want a number or method of contacting you reliably, and I want a shower.”

Damian raises an eyebrow, but then inclines his head. “As you wish, Husband. The veil behind you will lead to a bathing area, and I will send for your gear to be here when you emerge. As for the contact information, I imagine you will want to wait to receive that until you have your gear and can properly record it, yes?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Also, for your information, you come in there while I’m showering and I will make sure to break at _least_ one of your bones. Is that clear?”

Damian’s smirk is similar to Ra’s’, but the looks he shares with Bruce make it warmer, and far less creepy. “Understood.”

* * *

Ra’s is, predictably, absolutely furious.

The moment Damian grabs his hand — he just rolls his eyes and goes with it — and holds both their rings up to showcase, it feels like the entire room goes tense and still. Ra’s’ eyes narrow, shoulder tensing, hands curling to dangerous almost-claws and shifting towards weapons as he _sneers_. He’s pretty sure he’s only seen Ra’s this angry once, and frankly he almost died so it’s not a good memory on his part.

Damian, beside him, is all smooth but coiled muscle, as if prepared to meet a full out assault, which is not necessarily a bad call to be making. His gaze is focused on Ra’s, and he only holds their hands up for a moment before releasing the grip; more than enough time to make the point. Damian’s not carrying any weapons, as far as he’s aware, but his hands still shift to his sides like they’re used to gripping the hilts of swords when there are threats.

Talia, standing up by Ra’s, is shifting her gaze between her father and her son, and seems willing to make a move for either side, if necessary. She’s certainly tense, and she certainly looks ready to spill blood, but he guesses that she’ll be a crucial moment or two behind the two male members of the al Ghul family, and that will make all the difference.

Lastly, there are four other League members in the room, two framing the main door and two in the shadows to either side of the room, and he swears all four of them stop _breathing_ at the revelation. That’s not a bad call either; probably the last thing any normal League member would want to do around a pissed off Ra’s al Ghul is draw attention.

Especially when Ra’s stands, staring down like the wrath of God himself, directly towards his grandson.

“ _Damian_ —”

“The marriage is signed and consummated, Grandfather,” Damian interrupts, all without any hint of relaxation or other movement. “It is done.”

_Fury_.

The finished plan in his head cheerfully tells him that it’s time to get to work, so he does.

“Ra’s,” he calls, stepping forward and drawing all of the attention in the room to him. Damian looks _very_ alarmed for a moment, before it’s hidden. He certainly gets Ra’s’ focus.

“Detective,” Ra’s hisses, “perhaps you would like to offer some excuse for this?”

“Wasn’t my choice,” he answers truthfully, and then gives a sharp smile as he adds, “By the way, it was your _daughter’s_ idea, not Damian’s. I bet you know even better than I do that he’s not subtle or cooperative enough to have come up with something like this.”

Talia freezes as Ra’s looks at her, eyes widening.

“Drake!” Damian spits, voice wavering between angry and cautionary. Without looking, he holds up a hand to hush his new husband.

“I just thought you’d like to know that,” he finishes, and Talia remains sort of horrified looking even as Ra’s’ focus returns to him.

The sharp, calculating edge is back in Ra’s’ expression, chipping away at the fury behind the green eyes. “I appreciate that, Detective.”

“Drake, whatever you—”

“I’m going to leave now,” he announces, cutting Damian off without even a little bit of guilt. “Ra’s, I’ll be taking one of your planes. Or, I suppose they’re _my_ planes now too, aren’t they? Hm, now I would _guess_ that barring any direct, contradicting orders from the three of you, this new title to my name gives me control of the League, now doesn’t it?” He smiles again, looks over at Damian. “Dear _Husband_ , whenever you can next move again, get me copies of both original League Arabic and an English translation of the _entirety_ of the League’s laws; not just marriage. I have a feeling I’ll need those.”

He turns away from wide blue eyes and a slightly open mouth, to look towards one of the League ninjas against the wall and call, “ _You_. Come here. You’re going to escort me to those planes, to make sure no one tries to stop me, and make sure that I get exactly what I want.”

There’s a slight hesitation, and a glance towards Ra’s, but then the man moves towards him. Ra’s looks fascinated, which is kind of nice now that he knows that Ra’s can’t actually _do_ anything with it, and he meets Ra’s’ gaze for just a moment — to see if any countermanding order will come — before looking back at Damian.

Who only manages a, “You— _Drake_ , you…”

It’s a _vicious_ kind of satisfaction that curls his mouth, as he _smiles_. “If you didn’t want me to use my power, Damian, then you shouldn’t have given it to me in the first place. _Enjoy_ all of the consequences of what your mother just talked you into, _Husband_. Just imagine what might happen once I tell my team, or the rest of my _family_. Neither of you really thought through the concept of who you just signed on to have as very _pissed off_ in-laws, did you?”

Damian actually takes a step back, apparently reflexively. He keeps his smile as he looks up at Ra’s, who looks as if he might actually laugh.

“ _Grandfather_ , maybe we can have a real conversation some time in the future. For now, try not to maim my new husband too badly, hm? I’d like those documents before too long, and I _did_ give him until he can move again.”

He turns on his heel, not waiting for any of them to answer, and strides towards the door, hearing the very faint tap of his new League shadow’s footsteps behind him.

“Till next time, _Husband!_ ”


End file.
